The Big Keep: A Lena Dane Mystery (Lena Dane Mysteries) (11 page)

Her eyes were fixed on mine, and I could see she didn’t believe me. She was sure that everything that had happened to her in the last five years was her fault, and there wasn’t anything I could say to change her mind. I fervently wished I could go back and break that fucker’s nose all over again.
 

I glanced down at her hotel uniform, black pants and a dressy white shirt with a magnetic name tag. Several of her shirt buttons had been torn away, but the pants looked intact. Still, I needed to be sure. “Honey, did he...”
 

Ruby shook her head. I sighed with relief and squeezed her hand. He had not raped her.

We pulled up to the ER and the EMT’s prepared to unload Ruby. Her face was pale and wan, but her wide eyes focused intently on my face. “Selena,” she said weakly. I had scooted away to give the EMT some room, but now Ruby motioned me closer. Concerned, I took her good hand again and leaned close to hear her.

“Can your dog really bite off a man’s head?” she whispered, awed.

I couldn’t help it. I cracked up.
 

“I have no idea. But you should see what he can do to a rawhide bone.”

Bryce met us at the ER intake room, giving me a significant
thank you
glance before he rushed off with Ruby to get x-rays. I waited in the hall for a bit, knowing the police would want to talk to me when it calmed down a little. I had stripped off the Homeland Security outfit and stuffed it in my bag before the police had arrived, and I was a little chilly in my lightweight shirt. I accepted a cup of coffee from a receptionist before I remembered that I couldn’t drink it. Then I didn’t know what to do with the damn cup, so it sat loosely in my hand getting cool.

An unpleasantly familiar voice came booming down the hall. “Well, if it isn’t the best little hooker the Chicago P.D. ever had.”

I groaned out loud. Fantastic. “Well, if it isn’t the pickle on the crap sandwich of my night,” I said dryly. “Hello, Flanagan.”

The two cops came down the hall toward me, Bobby Flanagan a half a head shorter than Sarabeth Warrens, his partner. Sarabeth was crazy tall, over six feet, with a waterfall of dark hair that was always escaping the knot at her neck. “Hi, Lena,” she said shyly. Still awkward and gangly at 38, Sarabeth used to be the only other woman on my squad in Vice. They’d probably replaced me since then, though. The CPD was big on quotas.

“How are you, Sarabeth?” I smiled warmly up at her.

“Hey, where’s my smile?” Flanagan complained. “Didn’t I just call you the best hooker we ever had? You should be thanking me for the compliment.”

“What are you doing here, Flanagan?” I rolled my eyes over to the short, puffy cop, who’d been in my class at the Academy and had hit on me at least once a week before Toby and I got together. When I was an undercover prostitute on the Vice squad, Flanagan used to make up excuses to come into the room while the female techs were taping the microphone to my bra. He was super classy like that. “This isn’t a Vice case.”

“We heard your name on the radio,” Sarabeth said, fast and soft, as though Flanagan might interrupt at any second. A tiny grin blossomed on her face. “Officer Foster is apparently holding some sort of mutant attack dog in the back of his squad car for you.”

“Did he sound scared?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Awesome.”

“We was interviewing a hooker on two-” Flanagan began, taking over the conversation—“and we thought we’d come say hi.” He swaggered closer to me, and I tried to quell a nose-wrinkle of disgust. I used to think Flanagan used his dumb-cop persona as a tool, to get everyone to underestimate him. But if the whole thing really was an act, he was playing the very long game. “I know how you missed me.”

Fat chance. Flanagan’s father had served in the CPD with Matt Cleary’s father, long before my time, and the two of them had grown up together. When Cleary started cutting up prostitutes, Bobby Flanagan had been one of his loudest supporters, arguing to anyone who would listen that I’d railroaded the guy and ruined his career before murdering him. I was certain he was behind at least some of the hate mail and disturbing packages I’d been getting in the last week. “How’s the hooker?” I asked them.

Sarabeth’s face paled, but Flanagan just shrugged noncommittally. “Pimp beat her boneless. Probably won’t last the night, which sucks for paperwork. Oh, and that reminds me, I heard it was one of your pet whores who got beat up at the Stafford.” His beady little eyes watched me gleefully. The coffee cup in my hand puckered as my fist tightened.
I will not hit a cop, I will not hit a cop, I will not hit a cop.

“
Say,” Flanagan said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “Any big plans for this weekend? If so, you might want to make sure all your brake lights and blinkers are working.” His voice dropped half an octave, bordering on menacing. “It’s not a great weekend for you to get pulled over, is it now?”

Sarabeth shot me a worried look. I looked at the coffee cup in my hand with renewed interest. It had cooled down enough that I didn’t think it would
seriously
burn Flanagan if I dumped over his head. I focused on breathing. I knew he was baiting me on purpose, hoping I’d take a swing at him and he’d get to arrest me. On the other hand, I kind of thought it might be worth getting arrested if it meant I got to kick his ass, but it wasn’t a good weekend for me to be in jail, not with Cleary’s anniversary tomorrow.

Happily, at that moment Toby rushed up the hall. I’d never been so glad to see him. Flanagan took a reluctant step back to let him by as he rushed to gather me into his arms. I hugged him back, breathing in his special Toby-scent.
 

“Hey, Forsythe,” Flanagan muttered, backing up further. “See you later, Dane.” He turned to skulk off. Flanagan is understandably a little afraid of my husband. I waved good-bye to poor Sarabeth over Toby’s shoulder as she followed him toward the exit.

Toby ignored them both. “Are you okay?” he breathed into my hair.

“Yep. No big deal. No shots fired.” I said lightly.

“Good,” Toby said. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I knew how tired you were, and I thought I was just gonna go give her a ride home.” Okay, that was bordering on a lie, but I thought I could defend it if push came to shove.

“It’s okay.” Toby hugged me tighter. “Listen, baby, about the other night. I’m really sorry.”

“Me, too.” I basked in the hug, enjoying the familiar comfort of Toby. The adrenaline had worn off, and I felt tired and worn thin.
 

After another long moment, he pulled back to look at my face. “No, I mean, I’m sorry I got pissy about the kid thing. I just really want to try for a baby, but I know you’re not ready to leave this part of your life behind yet.” He pulled my body against his, smoothing hair off my face. “Anyway, we’ve got plenty of time. We don’t have to talk about it now, okay?” He hugged me to him again.

I was glad he couldn’t see my face. My stomach churned, either from nerves or from the baby trying to communicate it’s unhappiness with me. “Okay.”
 

I considered for a second, and decided to go for broke, because in many important matters, I am not a good person. “So you’re okay with me taking the Christianti case?”

Toby shrugged. “It sounds like the kid needs you, and at least you won’t be getting shot at.” He gestured around the ER. “I was just being selfish.”

I had won the fight. Yay, me.

13. Your Own Personal Mission

We had to hang around the hospital for a little while longer. I gave my statement to two different police officers, leaving out the part where I’d impersonated a Homeland Security agent, and spoke to a representative from the hotel named Mr. Sulden, who was pretty genial when he informed me that I was never welcome back to the Stafford. I asked him if Ruby would keep her job, and he said they were still considering the situation. Hearing that, Toby stepped up and introduced himself as Ruby’s attorney. He spouted a bunch of legal stuff at Sulden, with a litigious little glare, and I fought back a smile as the hotel rep began backpedaling. By the time we left Sulden had promised paid medical leave and a small bonus to help with hospital expenses.

I also checked in with Bryce, who said that the doctor wanted Ruby to stay overnight so he could keep an eye on her shock. I gave him a hug before I left, and promised to call him the next day to check in.
 

It was 4:30 in the morning when Toby, Toka, and I trooped in the door at the apartment. I slept fitfully for a couple of hours, finally giving up and getting out of bed at seven. The nausea was back, and I felt the shadow of the night before pressing down on me, adding to the pressure of the pregnancy news. I’d told myself I would tell Toby after today, but now I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. If he found out I’d knowingly brought the baby into a gunfight, he’d...well, I don’t know what he’d do.

I took Toka for a halfhearted walk and then plopped sullenly on the couch, feeling moody and bloated. My thoughts drifted to the significance of the day. Exactly five years earlier, I’d been an up-and-coming cop with a new boyfriend and a relatively bright future. The Matt Cleary case had been plaguing me, but that day I was finally going to put it to rest: I had a top-secret nine o’clock appointment to put my evidence in front of my commander, someone from Internal Affairs, and someone from the Office of the General Council. There was a lot riding on this one meeting: I hadn’t been subtle when I’d gone after Cleary, and the powers that be were pissed. I had to prove I was right, or face disciplinary action.
 

I left really early, feeling nervous and determined. I was going to make my case, goddammit, and this time someone was going to listen. As I drove toward the Internal Affairs building on Michigan Avenue, though, I’d suddenly felt sick. I’d pulled over in a hurry and puked my guts out into a fast food bag I had in the car.
 

At first I just chalked it up to nerves, but that didn’t really happen to me – I’d never been a nervous vomiter. But it had been a tough month: I’d been working all hours, trying to excel in my regular work and investigate the assaults on my own time. With so much going on, my boyfriend Toby and I had gotten a little careless about birth control. A thrilling, terrifying thought crossed my mind: could I be pregnant?

Since I had the time, I stopped at a drugstore for some mouthwash and a pregnancy test, taking both straight into the drugstore’s moldy bathroom.
 

The test was positive.

I found myself grinning the whole rest of the way to the IA building. I was gonna have a baby. It was completely out of left field, it was terrible timing, professionally, and Toby and I hadn’t been together all that long. But...yeah. I couldn’t stop smiling. This was gonna be great.

I never did find out how Matt Cleary learned about the meeting. It must not have been long before we started, or he wouldn’t have risked attacking me in a parking structure right next to the CPD building, the one all the cops used. Then again, that was assuming he was sane and logical, and sane, logical people don’t disfigure young women with box cutters, so who knows. At any rate, when I got out of the car, dressed in my business suit, my thoughts now torn in the direction of the pregnancy, Cleary was waiting for me.
 

Afterwards, after the fight and the police and the ambulance ride, they took a blood test at the ER. This time it was negative. No one could tell me if the first test had been a false positive, or if I’d miscarried a baby because of Matt Cleary. Either way, I never told Toby about the test. It would hurt him too much. I’d pushed the whole experience aside, put my head down, and endured. I endured the criticisms, the taunts, the suggestions that I must have been fucking Cleary. I tried to keep being a cop –to keep being my mother’s daughter– but staying with CPD was like continuing to work with your ex after they’d dumped you. Every day hurt, and it didn’t get better. Cleary and the department had broken my heart.

No, Rory was right. They’d broken me. And every year on this day, a small group of douchebags took it upon themselves to remind me.

I hung around the apartment for most of Saturday, though I was too distracted to do much. I told myself that I wasn’t afraid, that I hadn’t actually let Flanagan’s taunts get to me, but I didn’t believe me. I was hiding, and feeling sorry for myself.
 

In the afternoon I called Bryce to check in, as promised. Ruby had been discharged and was recuperating at the cramped two-bedroom apartment they shared. “The hotel’s giving her two paid weeks off, and physically, she’s gonna be fine,” Bryce said softly, and I knew he’d stepped into the other room so Ruby wouldn’t hear. “But I can tell she’s feeling like her past is going to follow her around forever. She seems...despondent.”
 

I’d never actually heard anyone use that word out loud before, but it certainly fit the situation.
 

At dinnertime I decided to take some food to Toby at the office. He’d appreciate the gesture, and I’d get to prove to myself that I wasn’t cowering anymore. I made a big pot of fettuccine Alfredo, Toby’s favorite, packed some in a Tupperware container, and after a moment’s thought, grabbed Toka’s leash. I might not be cowering, but I wasn’t stupid, either. I had the Browning, but in certain situations, Toka was even better.

We made it as far as the underground parking garage.
 

In the past Flanagan and his cronies had never escalated past the hang-up calls, some hate mail, and a few graphic packages of Barbie dolls in compromising positions. They must have decided on a bigger stunt for the fifth-year anniversary, though, because they’d turned their petty testosterone-jacked anger against the poor Jeep. All four tires were sliced to ribbons, and all of the windows were shattered. The words “Rat Bitchmobile” were spray-painted on the poor Jeep’s side in bleeding black paint.
 

I turned around in a slow circle, scanning the security. The parking garage was quiet –most of the people in this building were older couples and young families who ate early, so everyone was either in or out at 7:00 on a Saturday. There were no cameras in the parking garage, just a wrought-iron gate that required a key card to get in. Somehow Flanagan and his cronies had gotten a key card or found a way around it. I should have known they’d go for the parking garage attack. They were sentimental that way.